The night had already deepened into quiet shadows by the time Ourania reached home.
Only a handful of candles flickered weakly around the sitting room—thin, tired flames that cast more darkness than light. Most of the wicks were burnt out, leaving the house swallowed in dim gold and long, lonely silhouettes. She could barely distinguish shapes unless she stepped close enough for her hand to brush them.
She pushed the door shut, letting out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Her dress was damp at the hem from the grass near the pool. Her heart still ached with the memory of Marios kneeling, his hopeful eyes reflecting the moonlight.
She had almost said yes.
She removed her cloak and was about to slip past the sitting room when a voice cut through the dimness like a knife.
"Where do you think you're going, young lady?"
She froze.
Slowly, she turned.
Lysandra sat in the corner of the room like a carved statue, the dim candlelight brushing over her perfect posture, her unreadable face. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Waiting.
Ourania swallowed, forcing her expression calm.
"Mother… you haven't slept yet?"
"How can I," Lysandra replied, rising with effortless grace, "when my golden star—the apple of my eye—wanders the night alone? Where were you? What were you doing? And more importantly…"
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
"…who were you with?"
Ourania's pulse stuttered.
She was not the type to lie—not to her mother. They had always shared a strange closeness, even if Lysandra's love came wrapped in ambition and iron.
"I was at the festival," Ourania answered softly. "With… Marios."
Lady Lysandra's face twisted immediately—disgust, irritation, offense.
"Why with him?" she snapped.
"Mother, he's just a friend—"
"I do not like you keeping such friends."
Her tone was sharp, dismissive. Not angry—worse. Disappointed.
Ourania shifted uncomfortably, her heart heavy. "Please, Mother… leave it."
Lysandra's gaze sharpened. She hadn't expected defiance.
She stepped closer.
"What happened?" she demanded.
"Nothing."
"Do not insult me," her mother said quietly. "I raised you. I know when something is wrong."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, finally—
"Marios… proposed."
Lysandra blinked.
Then laughed.
It wasn't joy.
It wasn't amusement.
It was sharp, cold, mocking laughter that echoed in the dim room.
"Oh, sweet heavens… tell me you are joking."
"I'm not."
Her laughter stopped instantly.
Lysandra stepped forward, her tone suddenly serious, low.
"What did you say?"
"I… I didn't give him an answer."
"Good." She nodded once, decisively. "The next time you see him, tell him no."
Ourania clenched her hands. "Mother… what if I don't want to?"
"Oh, my sweetheart," Lysandra cooed, cupping her cheek with a hand that felt more like a cage than comfort, "you have to. In fact, you will."
"Why can't I marry him?" Ourania choked. "He loves me. He's kind to me."
"And you," Lysandra replied coolly, "are destined for better than some poor village boy."
Her voice softened in tone but sharpened in meaning.
"You have the chance to be a princess. A future queen for all we know."
Ourania shook her head, pain rising in her chest.
"Is this all because of the royal stuff? Because I'm not interested."
"Oh, sweetheart…" Lysandra smiled—a sharp, victorious smile. "This is bigger than interest. Bigger than you. You will be chosen. And I will make sure of it."
"…Mother, what are you doing?" Ourania whispered.
"That," Lysandra said smoothly, "is not for you to know. All you need to understand is this: the royal family will become your family. And that boy—Marios—is no longer in your league."
The words cut deeper than any blade Marios could forge.
Her heart cracked.
Something inside her snapped.
"Why can't you stop taking decisions for me?!"
The shout ripped out of her before she could stop it.
Silence slammed into the room.
Even Lysandra blinked.
Ourania inhaled sharply, chest shaking, then turned and stormed away—toward her room, toward anything that wasn't this suffocating future being forced on her.
Behind her, Lysandra's voice followed, cold and echoing:
"You will thank me when you end up where you belong!"
Ourania slammed her door shut so hard the candles trembled.
Silence settled again.
A long breath escaped Lysandra as she stood alone in the dim room. Her expression softened—then sharpened again into something calculating.
Quietly, almost to herself, she whispered:
"I must remove every distraction… before they distract my daughter again."
And the candle nearest her went out.
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